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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22833826">Picture Perfect</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/everlovingdeer/pseuds/everlovingdeer'>everlovingdeer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Harry Potter Short Stories [172]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Artists, Childhood Friends, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Reunions</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 13:54:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,992</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22833826</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/everlovingdeer/pseuds/everlovingdeer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I know.” Dennis started in his chair, shifting to sit up straight and looking like he wanted to say something. But, before he could, I said simply, “I knew you had a crush on me. You weren’t exactly subtle about it, Creevey. You were certainly far less subtle than Colin was.” </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dennis Creevey/Original Female Character(s), Dennis Creevey/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Harry Potter Short Stories [172]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1461751</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Picture Perfect</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was originally posted to other sites on 23/01/2020</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>No matter how many exhibitions I put on, they were just as nerve-wracking as the first one had been. My agent, who I’d lost when she ducked into the small congregation of people looking at my paintings, assured me that it was only because this was my fifth exhibition. I wanted to ask her if it ever got any easier, but because I was scared of what answer I would get in return, I held my tongue. </p><p>Instead, I found myself facing people who wanted to ask me endless amounts of questions about my work. Some seemed so awed by how painting worked in the muggle world and how much effort went into a single painting. I knew the crowd was made up mostly of pureblooded or half-blooded people who wanted a muggle painting in their home for novelty. These sorts of people were certainly easier to handle than those who were intent on looking for a deeper meaning in my paintings when there was none. Sometimes, a painting of a camellia flower really was just a camellia flower and not an outcry of desire like a <em>particularly </em>aggravating man who ‘studied further the art of muggle paintings, I’ll have you know’ insisted.</p><p>Excusing myself before I could snap and lose a potential customer, I walked around the small gallery. From a distance, I hid amongst the crowd and watched as people reacted to my work without knowing that I was the artist – that was one benefit of being a no-name artist. I could easily walk amongst everyone who saw my paintings and could see their reactions without them filtering it in order to make me feel better. The overall reactions seemed to be positive and I welcomed them all. </p><p>My agent wanted me to become more well known. She wanted my talent to be rewarded (and for her to take home more money) but for now, I was content to be nameless. Just as I went to grab a drink from the table of drinks lined up in the corner, I heard my name called loudly from amongst the crowd. Recognising the voice, I sighed and resigned myself to being drinkless. Forcing myself to smile, I turned to face my approaching agent who had an elderly woman at her side. I could recognise from the way my agent was looking at me that this woman was a potential buyer. </p><p>Cora closed the distance between us, beaming in a way that had me putting on my professional smile. Standing between me and the potential buyer, Cora did the introductions and the pleasantries effortlessly captured the potential buyer’s attention and shifting the spotlight onto me when it was time. </p><p>“We were wondering if we could get a deeper explanation of a painting,” Cora started, giving me a pleading look from behind the buyer’s back, knowing just how much I hated having to explain the paintings that actually had meanings. It was like giving a stranger a peek into my heart and whatever swirled around inside me and wound up finding its way onto the canvas. It always felt too personal, too vulnerable to tell someone who knew nothing about me. But, there were some things you had to do in order to pay the bills. </p><p>“Of course,” I agreed with a winning smile, letting Cora lead me toward said painting. </p><p>When we reached the painting – one that <em>did </em>have a meaning that tormented me, I swallowed thickly and wondered what to tell the buyer. Did I tell her the truth and say it was in memory of a dearest friend that I’d lost in my sixth year during the Battle of Hogwarts? Did I tell her about how horrific that year was and the only way I was able to cope with the grief of losing such a close friend was by throwing paint onto the canvas? Somethings were just too much to share. </p><p>“This is painting is dedicated to a dear friend,” I started softly, hearing the lingering grief painting each word, “A departed dear friend who made my time at Hogwarts that much more magical.”</p><p>Before I knew it, I was speaking in detail about my friend, without ever naming him or going into too much detail about him. I managed to keep it light, not wanting to go into too much detail about Colin in case it would cheapen the memories I shared with him. Exchanging my memories with him for money was too much. I waited only until the deal had been made, thanked the buyer before making a quick exit towards the drink table. Picking up the first glass I saw, I drank it down in one go, wishing it was something much stronger. It had been three years and still, it was too painful. </p><p> “Ortega,” the call of my surname had me returning the empty glass to the table. I turned on my feet, expecting to see Cora approaching me once more with yet another buyer that I needed to pour my soul out to. But it wasn’t Cora. Rather, it was a stranger, who walked through the crowd with hands that fidgeted anxiously. Easing the furrow between my brows, I continued to wait for him to come toward me. Finally, standing in front of me, he stopped fidgeting with his hands and said again, “Ortega.” </p><p>When he said nothing else and simply continued to look at me, there were multiple questions on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to ask who he was, how he knew my name and if he recognised me as the artist. I didn’t ask any of that, instead, I asked, “Is there something wrong?”</p><p>“No,” he said after a moment, shaking his head. Then, he gestured vaguely towards the paintings, “They’re beautiful. You’re still talented.”</p><p>“Still?” I considered him with curious eyes.  How – </p><p>“Three years must be long enough for you not to recognise me.” There was no blame in his soft words. “It’s me, Dennis.” </p><p>Now that he’d introduced himself, I <em>could </em>see a fragment of the old Dennis in the now 19-year-old. He had grown taller, but he was also carrying himself differently – more sombre and more withdrawn in the way he walked. Grief would do that to a person. But, his eyes, sometimes in the right light, were just as warm and comforting as when he’d been nothing more than a boy.</p><p>Smiling honestly for the first time that night, I asked, “How did you even find out about tonight?”</p><p>“I saw a poster and just thought I’d drop by – in case I saw you.”</p><p>“I’m glad you came.” I’d said those words countless times tonight, but for the first time, I meant them. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Sometimes fate was the strangest thing; it always seemed to bring people you never thought you’d see again back into your life. Dennis, who I hadn’t seen for two years since I’d left Hogwarts was someone who could’ve easily slipped once more back out of my life after our little meeting during my exhibition. We could’ve had that one enjoyable meeting with him being my single ray of hope amongst a night full of overly intrusive strangers, but he hadn’t remained as just that. Rather, he was someone I continued to bump into. Whether it was something like bumping into him on my way home after having spent a day working in the studio or even like today, happening to spy him as he left the shop across the road from the one that I had left. Helga, sometimes there were people who were just supposed to become part of your life again. </p><p>Stepping out from the art supply store with my haul of acrylic paints tucked away in my bag, I happened to look across the road and spy Dennis as he left a technology repair store. He stopped in the doorway, saying something to the person inside the shop before he too walked out onto the street. I would’ve let him walk right past me, thinking he must’ve been busy and not wanting to hold him up. But I knew it was supposed to happen when, absentmindedly, he cast a glance around and happened to spy me where I remained perched on the doorstep of the art supply shop. And just like that, he was smiling and crossing the street to join me.</p><p>“Fancy seeing you here,” he said when he was within earshot. </p><p>“I can’t seem to get rid of you,” I teased, finally clambering off the doorstep and joining him on the pavement.  </p><p>“It’s a small world.” Dennis glanced at the sign of the shop I’d just left before asking, “Can I walk you somewhere?” </p><p>“And I need you to walk me why?” Elbowing him to soften the blow of my words, I started to walk, knowing he would follow me. “I’m plenty capable of walking myself.”</p><p>“I just thought you’d want some company.” Shrugging, he explained, “I remembered that when you’re working you can lock yourself away for hours at a time. Who knows, this might be the only real human interaction you have all day.”</p><p>It was – but I wasn’t going to tell him that.</p><p>“I’m not as bad as I used to be,” I insisted as we turned the corner. “If you’re planning on walking me, then you can join me on my way to my studio. It’s 5 minutes away.” </p><p>“Your studio?” There was something in his tone that had me looking toward him. He looked at me, brows raised teasingly, “Am I being granted the privilege of being allowed into your studio? Really? You used to hex us if we tried to get a peek at your work in progress.”</p><p>“At least you know how big a privilege it is that you’re being allowed in.” Before he could run his smart mouth again, I quickly walked the rest of the way to the building my studio was located. </p><p>Pulling my set of keys from my pocket, I unlocked the front door, holding it open for him. Then, we walked past the lift and prepared to climb the four flights of stairs – unwilling to risk our magic reacting with the lift in some way. Taking the stairs one at a time, I listened to Dennis as he filled the silence with mindless chatter about what he’d done today. </p><p>Finally reaching my studio, I unlocked the door and headed inside. I left the door open for him to enter. But I made it a short way in before realising that he hadn’t followed me. Rather, he continued to stand in the doorway, his eyes searching mine out in a silent question of whether it really was alright for him to come in. He of all people knew how much of myself I could put into my work. Dennis would never know it, but I was grateful for the respect he continued to show me – to some they were just paintings but he at least understood.</p><p>“Come in,” I said reassuringly, nodding and beckoning him in. </p><p>At last, he walked inside, glancing around the room to see the number of half-completed canvases that I had thrown around the place. He approached one of the unfinished paintings, squatting down beside it to get a good look at it. I left him to his silent perusal and finally set my bag of new supplies down. Uncovering the newest painting I was working on; I took a few steps back and studied it from a distance. I only looked up when I heard his Dennis clear his throat as he approached me. </p><p>“Why are you getting rid of them?” he asked, gesturing toward the abandoned paintings. </p><p>“I’m not sure, there’s just something off about them.” Shrugging, I muttered, “I probably won’t get rid of them; I’ve spent too long working on them.”</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p>Unable to interpret what the ‘hmm’ meant, I turned to look at him, “What were you doing in the Wizarding World on the night of my exhibition? The last I heard; you were done with the Wizarding World?”</p><p>“I’m doing what you’re doing – hopping back and forth between both. But I didn’t go back – not for a long time. I just needed the time away.”</p><p>“I get it,” I assured him, trying to get him to understand that he didn’t need to talk about it. Not if he didn’t want to. </p><p>Dennis breathed out deeply, eyes softening in his gratitude. He came to stand at my side, his arm brushing mine as he joined me in studying the painting I was working on. “I just felt like it was time to go back, that I was ready.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> With the end of another productive day coming to a close, I faced my most hated part of the day – tidying up. Setting the canvas I’d been working on aside, I gathered all my dirty brushes and the dirty palette I’d used to mix my colours together. Approaching the sink, I ran the water and methodically washed them all clean, making sure that not even the slightest spec of paint remained. Gathering the brushes in one hand, I shook them roughly over the sink before laying them flat on the towel spread over the counter. Washing my hands of any lingering paint, I dried them on the bottom of my apron.</p><p>Turning away from the sink, I rested against the counter and stretched my hands over my back to stretch properly for the first time all day. Whilst stretching, I surveyed the studio, wondering how much longer I could go before mopping the floors again. A tentative knock on the door brought me from my contemplations of putting off the mopping for another day. </p><p>For a moment, I just looked at the door and didn’t approach it. The chances were it was Cora who’d come to bug me once more about a particular painting of mine. Apparently, it had caught the eye of a buyer who was willing to pay handsomely – unfortunately, it wasn’t one I was willing to sell. No matter how generous the price offered was. Cora wanted desperately to sell the painting and was hellbent on convincing me. Perhaps it was my fault for not telling her why I didn’t want to sell the painting, but it wasn’t something I was yet willing to share. </p><p>“It’s me,” came a male voice through the door. It took me some time to place the voice, but when I did, I smiled widely. Wringing my hands dry once more on my apron, I approached the door and unlocked it. </p><p>“Dennis,” I greeted, even before I’d looked at his face.</p><p>Stepping out the way, I let him into the studio, shutting the door behind him. When I turned to face him again, the smile I greeted him with faded a little when I saw the very familiar camera hung around his neck. It took some effort but I managed to recover my smile, but when I finally met Dennis’s eyes, I hoped he could read the silent question in my eyes.</p><p>When he said nothing, I was forced to ask aloud, “Is that –”</p><p>When it became obvious that I wasn’t going to complete the question, Dennis lifted the camera slightly before saying, “Yeah.”</p><p>Reaching around the back to fidget with the tied strings of my apron, I asked slowly, “When did you get it?”</p><p>“Not look after he – after the battle.” Clearing his throat, Dennis looked around the studio. When I gestured for him to come further in, I walked further ahead as he spoke, “I didn’t even look at it for the longest time but I had some of the pictures printed recently.”</p><p>“Did you?” I asked faintly, grabbing two stools and putting them next to each other. </p><p>Taking a seat, I watched as he approached me, without being able to take my eyes off the camera around his neck. During my time at Hogwarts, I swore I saw the thing every day. Helga, the thing was always tucked into Colin’s bag and he’d pull it out whenever he got the chance. If I didn’t see the camera, then it was a sign that he was having a shit day. Seeing it again was, in the strangest way, like seeing Colin again – of seeing his brown eyes peeking behind the lens as he held it aloft to take another picture. </p><p>Joining me, Dennis sat across from me and watched me in a stifled silence. Then, removing the camera from around his neck, he tucked it into a bag I didn’t realise he was carrying. Withdrawing a white envelope, he fiddled with the corner, “I had some of the pictures printed out. Do you … want to look through them?”</p><p>Accepting the envelope, I pulled the pictures out and leafed through them. It took me some time to get past the first one, finding myself staring down at a smiling Colin who so rarely let someone else hold his camera had somehow been convinced to let someone get a picture of him. The still image of Colin immortalised at such a young age was hard to look away from. But I did eventually. Clearing my throat, I moved onto the next one and took my time looking over that one as well. The more pictures I studied, the more I was reminded of Colin’s love of candid shots – he’d always hated how artificial posed shots could seem. </p><p>But, as I continued to look further, my brows drew close in a furrow when my mind gave a hesitant murmur about commonality in most of the candid shots. Me – they were of me.</p><p>Lifting my eyes hesitantly toward Dennis’s waiting ones, I didn’t want to say what was on my mind. I didn’t even want to contemplate anything about it. Faintly, I said, “I don’t remember him taking any of these. He must’ve taken them when I wasn’t looking.”</p><p>“He was always doing that.” Dennis shook his head fondly, standing and doing a slow round of the studio. I watched him from behind as he walked with heavy footsteps, unwilling to meet the weighty stare of my lingering gaze. He pretended to be studying my work, but I knew he wasn’t. “He used to fancy you; did you know that? He’d talk about how he was crushing on you and how he was terrified of ruining your friendship.”</p><p>Left with nothing to say, I murmured a gentle, “Oh.”</p><p>Before I could say something else, Dennis spun on his feet to look at me, his shoes making a squeaking sound against the laminated floors. When he smiled, forced and nothing like his real one, I knew not to say anything. “So – are you working on anything new?” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Lately, whenever I happened to meet Dennis, our conversation would somehow revert back to Colin. For so long we’d made sure not to speak a word of him, neither of us knowing how the other would react to mentions of the Gryffindor that had been such an important part of both our lives. Except, mention of the camera had opened up a vault and the conversation would, without fail and sometimes only for a little while, somehow go back to Colin. Even now, as Dennis sat at the table in my kitchen, leafing through the copy of the pictures that he’d given me, I could tell that he wanted to talk about his brother. </p><p>“Do you remember this picture?” Dennis asked, making me turn away from the Bolognese sauce I was working on to find him holding a single photo aloft. </p><p>“Which one?” I asked, setting my spoon down and approaching the two-person table. </p><p>Stretching to get a closer look at the picture, I smiled widely when I recognised it from my fifth year. It was taken during a random lunch period where I’d sat at the Gryffindor table as an honorary Gryffindor in the way that only Hufflepuffs ever seemed to become honorary Gryffindors. In the photograph, I had my arms around a young third-year Dennis whose entire face was flushed red. If I remembered correctly – it had been his birthday and I’d teasingly gifted him a peck on the cheek. </p><p>“You were such a cute kid,” I said with a gentle laugh, turning back to the sauce that had neared completion. “I’d never realised that someone could turn <em>that</em> red without being sunburnt.” </p><p>“Can you blame me?” he asked defensively, as I checked on the boiling spaghetti. Lifting the pan and hurriedly taking it to the sink, I poured out the pasta into the colander. Setting the pan aside, I glanced over my shoulder at Dennis who was looking at me after having clearly forced himself to stop speaking. After turning the heat off on the sauce, I leaned against the counter and waited patiently for him to speak. He breathed in deeply, taking a long sip from the tango I’d offered him, to gather his nerve. “Can you blame me for looking that red? Before the picture was taken, you’d kissed me on the cheek and I – I had the worst crush on you – it must be a Creevey brother thing, huh?”</p><p>He ended his sentence by glancing quickly away from me and swallowing a large gulp of tango as if he wished it was something <em>much </em>stronger. When he lifted his eyes hesitantly back to me, clearly wanting to say something, I contemplatively rolled my bottom lip into my mouth. Eventually, I settled onto the truth. </p><p>“I know.” Dennis started in his chair, shifting to sit up straight and looking like he wanted to say something. But, before he could, I said simply, “I knew you had a crush on me. You weren’t exactly subtle about it, Creevey. You were certainly far less subtle than Colin was.” </p><p>Leaving him to recover from that bombshell, I removed two plates from the cupboard and portioned out the spaghetti onto the plates. Just as I went to spoon some sauce over the pasta, Dennis pointedly cleared his throat again, trying to get my attention. When I still didn’t look at him, he stood and approached the counter. I tracked his progress from the corner of my eye, watching as he came towards me.</p><p>He held the salad bowl between his hands, asking, “How did you know?” </p><p>“You were a mess.” Shrugging simply, I watched as he took the salad bowl to the table. Spooning the sauce onto the spaghetti, I glanced back at Dennis who stood behind the chair he’d previously been sitting at. He reached out, holding the back of the chair with two hands. “Every time I went to yours during the holiday, you were honestly a mess. I think it was the summer following your second year that it started?”</p><p>“A bit earlier than that,” Dennis corrected me, sounding just as mortified as he had when, during my stay at his home the summer of his second year, his mother had accidentally let his laundry fall to the floor and I’d managed to catch sight of his underpants. </p><p>“It was flattering.” Hoping my words assured him, I carried our plates to the table and gestured for him to take a seat. He was reluctant to sit but eventually did. Grabbing the grated cheese, I handed it to him and Dennis sprinkled some on top of his pasta. Doing the same to my own, I returned it to the fridge. Taking my seat across from Dennis, I saw the way he continued to throw me anxious glances as I helped myself to some salad. “Honestly, it was an ego boost when I was going through an awkward phase of puberty.”</p><p>“I’m glad.” Finally convinced, he picked up his fork and dug in. Spinning my own fork through my fingers, I watched his reaction. He’d never know it, and I’d never tell him, but Dennis was the first person who’d ever tried my cooking. Meeting my curious eyes, Dennis swallowed his mouthful. “It’s good.”</p><p>“Thank Merlin.” Mixing my pasta with the sauce, I twirled the spaghetti around my fork and lifted it to my mouth. </p><p>“My crush flattered you.” A pleased smile curled around his lips, even if he tried to hide it by shovelling more pasta into his mouth.</p><p>“Of course, it did.” </p><p>“And … after finding out about Colin’s crush?”</p><p>“Honestly?” I pushed the pasta around my plate, “I was conflicted at first – especially since I can’t see him again. But – truthfully, it’s kind of gross. He was like a brother to me, practically my twin.” </p><p>“He was like a brother to you? Have I ever been like a little brother to you?”</p><p>“You?” I considered him as he sat across from me. He waited patiently for my answer. “I haven’t considered you to be like my little brother. Not even once.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It was a few days before I saw Dennis again. The letters I’d sent him had gone unanswered and I’d wondered if he was busy but hadn’t pressed the matter any further, not wanting to bother him if he had things he needed to tend to. Instead, I had my own things to sort out with Cora as we prepared for yet another exhibition and this time it would consist solely of paintings that I was willing to sell. There were some last-minute issues that we needed to sort out like hiring extra staff to help with setting up the exhibition hall as well as arranging accommodation in the Wizarding World. </p><p>Transporting the paintings was always an overwhelming task because I insisted on painting them in the muggle world – unwilling to risk even the slightest of magic in the Wizarding World tainting the paintings in any way. Of course, when we <em>did </em>have to use magic to transport the paintings to the magical world, I risked having hours of work wrecked. It was a risk I had to take because the Ministry would not condone hosting the exhibition for Wizards and Witches in case someone accidentally broke the statute of secrecy whilst engaging with Muggles. So I had to have two exhibitions in two locations and Helga, it was painful to arrange.</p><p>Working with Cora made it all easier, but there was only so much she could help with. The muggle part-time workers that I’d hired to help pack away my paintings worked conscientiously under my eyes. I stood to one side, watching them all carefully and consulting the list of the paintings that needed to be packed away. Once we were finished, I paid the workers and walked to the door to send them away with a wave. My eyes followed them as they progressed down the hall, and settled with surprise on the Wizard who stepped to the side so they could walk past him. Remaining in the doorway, I watched as Dennis crossed the remaining space between us and let him into my studio. </p><p>Leaving him to shut the door behind him, I once more picked up the list to do a final check that the correct paintings had been packed away and that I hadn’t somehow managed to let one slip by even though I’d conducted multiple checks. Even as I searched through the list, I listened out for Dennis whose footsteps had halted not long after I turned my back to him. Glancing over my shoulder, I found him looking around the almost empty studio with uncertainty. </p><p>“Whatever you’re wanting to say Creevey, just say it.”</p><p>Eventually, he asked, “What’s going on here? Are you leaving or something?”</p><p>“Not leaving,” I assured him, once more consulting my list. “Just preparing for an exhibition. They need to be sent off by the end of the week.” </p><p>“Ah.” He was silent for a while and only when I’d made it to the end of my list did I look back at Dennis who was still standing in the same place. He stood with his hands clasped before him, gnawing on his bottom lip as if to forcefully keep the words in. Clearing my throat pointedly, I waited for him to meet my eyes. Barely managing to hold my eyes, Dennis said abruptly, “I’ve never been like your brother. Right?” </p><p>“Is that really what’s been on your mind?” </p><p>“Just answer the question – please.”</p><p>“You’ve never been like my brother – are you happy now?”</p><p>“No.” Before I could cut in with a question, he explained, “I’m confused.”</p><p>Setting my checklist aside, I leaned against the wall behind me. “Because of my words?” </p><p>“No – because of the way you’ve been looking at me recently.” Startled and surprised that I’d been caught, I watched him steadily. He was stubbing the front of his shoe against the floor like he was an anxious third year again. Only, he wasn’t a third-year anymore. He was a grown man, out of Hogwarts for a year now and the expression of anxiety was rather more endearing. But I was careful not too show any indication of my mind. Not yet. “Say something then.”</p><p>“What is there to say?” I shrugged. “You clearly know it all.” </p><p>“But then, I – I.” He cleared his throat, then tried once more. “Since when?”</p><p>“I’m not exactly sure <em>when </em>– if you’re looking for a specific date or something. Except, that it happened fairly recently.”</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>.”  Dennis lingered under my eyes, even if he flushed an unflattering shade of red. But, he remained standing there like the Gryffindor he was with an endearing smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Well, um, I guess. Once your exhibition is over and you’re back in muggle London – maybe we could go for coffee or something?”</p><p>“Or we could go after the exhibition?” At my suggestion, he met my eyes once more, surprised but pleased nonetheless. “If you come to the exhibition, you can give me a reason to sneak out early? If you want?”</p><p>“I’d love that.” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Epilogue: 1 Year Later</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sometimes, I wondered why Cora insisted that I couldn’t be a faceless artist.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>1 YEAR LATER</em>
</p><p>Sometimes, I wondered why Cora insisted that I couldn’t be a faceless artist. She insisted that I couldn’t rely on the mystery to draw in an audience and that since some people had already <em>seen </em>my face, it would be pointless to suddenly refuse to do any exhibitions in purpose. But <em>Helga, </em>I hated having people come up to me to talk about my work, wanting to know about it or bartering a price. It was a part of being an artist that I hated. It was only because I didn’t want to actually become a starving artist, I had to put up with this all.</p><p> Although, these exhibitions really wouldn’t really be such a bad thing if I could linger in the back and just watch as people appreciated my work. I didn’t even mind seeing people ridicule my work by insisting ‘Even I could do that!’ because it was their honest reaction. Mingling was the worst part of it all. Especially when I knew that some of the pure-blooded patrons would have not long ago been the type to pick flaws and tear me apart because of my blood status. Some of their minds were so easily changed by what was considered trendy. </p><p>Cora, always willing to be the face of the operations, was walking amongst our guests and talking to them about the paintings whilst probably trying to make some sales. I studied her conversation partner, unable to keep my face blank when I recognised who she was talking to as a rather persistent pest who’d abducted me and insisted on explaining the <em>wrong </em>meaning of my work to me. They refused to listen to the <em>correct </em>inspiration and correct meaning but just wouldn’t listen to me so I’d left him somewhere far behind. For the last hour or so I’d been avoiding him like the plague, unwilling to listen to the fake deep words that he wanted to bestow on me. </p><p>Not knowing my internal turmoil and irritation, turned away from the conversation for a moment, searching the exhibition hall and I just <em>knew </em>she was looking for me. To my displeasure, it was like she had a special ability to pinpoint my location and picked me out in a heartbeat. Rather unfortunately, her partner managed to spy me as well. He turned once more, appearing to end his conversation with Cora and looking like he was going to approach me. </p><p>Turning on my heel before he could even take a single step toward me, I delved through the crowd to fetch myself a drink. Helping myself to a drink, I took a well-deserved sip and contemplated casting a glance over my shoulder to see if my pest had caught up with me. But that seemed too much like tempting fate. </p><p>Hands, warm and gentle, settled so heavily onto my shoulders that I started, almost spilling my drink in my surprise. Raising my hand to my thundering chest, I turned hesitantly to the person standing behind me only to find Dennis staring back at me with obvious amusement. </p><p>“You’re hiding from someone again?” he guessed, laughing when I took another second to gather my nerves. </p><p>“Yes,” I said so emphatically that he looked on the verge of laughing again. To stop himself from laughing and finding himself under the receiving end of a glare, he took my glass from me and drank from it. “There’s a man here that’s intent on teaching me about my own work.”</p><p>With a frown, he searched the hall as if to locate out the person that had been troubling me. “So tonight hasn’t been fun then?”</p><p>“It has, for the most part.” Patting his chest reassuringly, I smiled warmly when Dennis, reassured, turned back to me. “Really, you know how I am – I tend to focus on the negative, anyway.” </p><p>“<em>That </em>I know too well.” </p><p>“Dennis?”</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“What are the chances you can get me out of here?”</p><p>Dennis moved closer to me, acting like he was solely embracing me when I knew he was searching out Cora, to make sure she was preoccupied. Dropping an absentminded kiss to my head, he pulled back to assure me, “Looks like Cora is in the middle of a sale, we have to head out now if we’re going to leave.”</p><p>Beaming up at him, I grabbed his hand between both of mine, “Let’s go.”</p><p>Dennis didn’t need any encouragement. He took the hand he was holding, tucking it into his elbow and hurrying me out through the crowded hall and keeping a cautious eye out for Cora. When he spied her getting too close, Dennis pretended to be talking about a painting and when the coast was clear, he hurried me out of the exhibition venue, only stopping to grab our coats. Stepping out into the cold air, I finally grinned widely as I shrugged into my coat, no longer having to keep my pretty professional smile on my face. Now that I was alone with Dennis I could smile crookedly and it didn’t matter. Rather – I knew Dennis preferred this smile. </p><p>“Where should we go?” Dennis asked, taking my hand in his and tucking both our hands into his pocket to keep them warm. When I didn’t answer, he nudged me with his shoulder, “Well?”</p><p>“I don’t care,” I said truthfully, keeping the rest of my sentence to myself because I knew it would make him tease me. But it was the truth – I didn’t care where we went as long as I was with him. It was always like this – when I had to prepare for an exhibition, I couldn’t see Dennis as much as I wanted to. But it didn’t matter now. </p><p>As if he could read my mind, Dennis just hummed pleasantly and matched his steps with mine as we walked slowly through the lamp-lit streets. “Why don’t we just walk for a bit and see what we find? Does that sound good?”</p><p>“Sounds perfect,” I said, resting my head on his shoulder. </p>
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